Saging with Audacity, Vim and Vigor: Wisdom in Every Wrinkle

Reclaiming the Crone, Becoming the Salty Crone, Meeting Nana Crone and others...

Aug 02, 2024

We women have learned to be hard on ourselves. It’s time to relax outdated, worn-out, impossible stigmas.

Women have internalized a relentless pressure to meet impossible standards. We've convinced ourselves that we are not beautiful, young, healthy, desirable, or loving enough. Society dictates that we hide our wrinkles, alter our appearance, and prioritize others' needs over our own. Despite our years of hard-won wisdom and generosity, we have felt undervalued and unseen. Feelings of inadequacy can leave us bewildered and defeated, scrambling to fix ourselves in pursuit of validation. We turn to empowerment courses, cosmetic alterations, and self-help books, in a desperate pursuit of uncovering the elusive solution and transforming ourselves into the ‘real deal’ of a woman entering cronedom.

At age 64, I broke my leg and was forced to lay low in a wheelchair, then crutches, while I taught myself to walk again. I was forced to reckon with my lack of permission to just relax, do nothing, and celebrate the beauty within and around me. I fell out of love with my body, with enjoying the deliciousness of being alive, with listening to the whispering urges for pleasure, risk, solitude, artistic expression, or simply being.

I was given a full stop, a blessing in disguise to reexamine my life, to stop pushing and set down what was not conducive to balance. I closed my private practice, quit social media, and unpacked a boatload of emotions that weighed on me. I was determined to live a life without regrets, wide open so when the lights go out at the end of the day, I would say to myself:

Well done!

Last year at age 66, I joined an all-women's council on an ‘Exquisite Tenderness’ retreat. Surprisingly, they repeatedly called me The Salty Crone.

Confused, I thought what the F**K, is that a compliment or an insult?

I googled ‘salty.’ I needed to know.

The term ‘salty’ can have various meanings depending on the context:

Informally: It can describe someone who is irritated, bruised, or short-fused, often in a somewhat comical or exaggerated way. For example, "She got salty when she missed the circus."
Flavor: It refers to something that tastes of or contains salt (obviously).
Character: In a positive and descriptive sense, salty describes someone bold, seasoned, and full of piss and vinegar. She is candid, unafraid to speak her mind, has a rich life experience, and possesses a sharp wit or edge.

Armed with data I conversed with the council, who confirmed that,

Yes, it is a compliment, an honor, a crowning initiation.

I blushed a bit, thinking, hmm, if it fits, wear it. I’m wearing it.

Historically, ‘crone’ held ugly connotations, suggesting a withered, wicked, grumpy dispensable old woman with a long crooked nose.

In actuality, ‘crone’ is a rite of passage — a reclamation for older women to proudly celebrate their hard-won wisdom, wrinkles as badges of honor, jovial hearts as generous, and bodies as sexy with plenty of verve and vigor.

A real badass seasoned with salt.

Who is the Crone?

You don’t have to be famous, noteworthy, or, God forbid, a religious zealot to be crowned as a Crone; thankfully, most often, you are not.

Religion is for people who fear hell. Spirituality is for people who have been there. — Bowie

Ordinary women across the country are redefining Crone from the 13th-century old French word, carrion, (the rotting flesh of a dead animal) — to the 14^th-century Middle-English, frail and withered worn-out woman — to European folklore that defined Crone as a disagreeable disposable woman.

In the 15th and 16th centuries, women were wrongly accused of witchcraft, burned at the stake, and held as property for those in power to do as they wished.

In the 17th, 18th, and 19th centuries, older women were primarily stationed within the domestic sphere with invisible value while marginalized in broader societal and economic contexts. Their roles, perceptions, and worth continued to be shaped by prevailing cultural norms, religious beliefs, and economic conditions.

In the 20th and 21st centuries, the experience of women evolved significantly, with increased recognition of their contributions, capabilities, and rights.

We’re not done yet, ageism and economic disparity continue to be challenging areas of concern.

Throughout my graduate studies at Boston University in the early 80’s, it was a wild time of change for women. We were doing radical things like burning bras, protesting inequities, and fighting for the freedom to choose as shown in Our Bodies Ourselves.

Truth be told, I never burned a bra. I didn’t wear one.

I stood with the radical lesbian feminist Mary Daly in pursuit of women’s ordination. We sewed the words ‘ORDAIN WOMEN’ onto purple stoles that we draped over our unfashionable liturgical vestments. It was a peaceful walk at St Marks Cathedral down the left aisle while the male ordinands proceeded down the right aisle toward their holy calling.

Surprisingly or not, it was the older women in the back rows of the church who shouted at us,

Go home. You belong in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant.

Of course, they did not have the awareness, education, tools, or resources to deconstruct thousands of years of patriarchal prisons that harm all genders and privilege men to control a disproportionately large share of social, economic, political, and religious power.

Admittedly, in 2024, many of us continue to carry internalized misogyny and turn a blind eye to systems that hold power over, dominate others, and get away with it.

I usually do not write about politics yet the personal is spiritual is political—and matters. The forthcoming election is one of the most important in consideration of KA MA LA HARRIS who is a wise Crone, and with our help will withstand bullying from you know who, and be the first black woman and first South Asian woman elected as president.

It is the Trump/Vance attitude – their words and actions regarding women, gender, families, and society – that makes the forthcoming presidential election the most consequential — writes Paul Daley in the Gaurdian.

I digressed. In the 80’s expectations were being challenged. Kate, a 56-year-old mother of three and lifetime activist put her energies into civil and social liberties; Mrs. P., an 88-year-old widow that I lived with was a trailblazing pioneer of cultural events in the greater Boston area; Marjorie, at 72, completed her MFA in creative writing, and was prepared to publish her first memoir; Kathy, marked her 67^th birthday with a solo trip to Ireland, a trip she dreamed of since she was a teenager. Agnes, my yoga teacher, age 60, began each day with a twenty-minute headstand. I know, I was upside down with her.

Meet Nana O’Hara

My mother’s mother, my grandmother (1908 to 1974) was an exemplary Crone. Unlike many of our pre-feminism foremothers who weren’t able to leave a trail or share their stories, she exerted independence and birthed creative pleasures. She didn’t live in an era of enlightened opportunities nor was she born into wealth but she was on fire.

Nana was an early widow, who worked to become a well-resourced woman. She appeared to have zero loyalty to the ageism and sexism culture. The anti-aging products that flood our mailboxes today, in the late 1930s were vividly displayed on a black and white television. Nana flaunted the beauty industry standards to her advantage. She strutted down Main Street donning a fur coat, a large brimmed hat, and a velvet clutch under her arm.

Mam, what size shoe do you wear?

With a wink and a roar, she responded to the store clerk,

I wear a size nine but ten feels so good, that I buy an eleven.

Nana co-owned a large appliance store with her brother Francis. She managed the books and customers well into her seventies. As a young teenager in the late 60’s I relished the excursions to Nana’s shop. She was lit up and exuded a rabble-rousing force that I didn’t feel in older women.

Excited, I entered her store, immediately stunned as she rose like a giant from tallying sales and calculating inventory. She stood six feet tall with a thick snow-white bun high upon her head. She squeezed my cheeks until they turned beet red, tattooed fat rosy kisses on my wiggling body, and gave me a nickel for a bottle of fizzy coke. Cheerfully she gestured,

Go play in the warehouse. I have customers to tend to.

I stayed close by like a spy, memorized by her strong hands, long fingers with painted nails, fat rings with dazzling emeralds, and bracelets that swiveled around her thick forearms. She strode around her store half the size of a soccer field in two-inch-high heels pointing at the rows of electric refrigerators, stoves, or washing machines to find the ideal match for her customer.

After a sale, she danced to the tune of Petula Clark’s hit release of Downtown in 1964. It didn’t matter who was in the store, she sang with gusto,

When you’re alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go downtown… when you’ve got worries, all the noise and the hurry, you can always go downtown… things will be great when you’re downtown… downtown.

I never met her husband, my grandfather, he passed away when my mom was thirteen, in 1942. She had a boyfriend but never remarried. Whether she had worries or not, I didn’t hear about them only that she forbade my mother to marry my father. When my father wished to court my mother, Nana stood at the top of the stairs with an iron skillet raised over her head and commanded,

Don’t you come near my daughter. I swear, I’ll clock you.

I wasn’t born yet to know for sure if Nana clocked my father. I understood through the tales she told that she was a wise dangerous Crone, a protectress aware that danger lurked and the need to proceed with caution.

My Nana was well-boundaried, generous, and unbashful — never miserly and not afraid to call a spade a spade. Her attempts at fostering what today we call women’s empowerment came in the guise of stories. On Sunday afternoons we crowded around the base of her kitchen table on the floor unable to take our eyes off her. She sat with feet prompted up on a chair, martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and began — usually with a long tale about one of her aunts…

Today, women are rocking with progressive movements in every arena from creative art to finance to sharing parenting responsibilities to forming not-retirement communities to beginning a new career at 60.

Many people consider Substack a movement, a media ecosystem for discoverability and for people to take ownership of their talent as writers and creators.

There are many examples of women who are resting or rocking and everything in between to own and model their Crone wisdom.

My dear friend Abigail Thomas who writes The Next Thing on Substack has four children, twelve grandchildren, two great-grandchildren, two dogs, eleven books, and a high school education. Her books include Safekeeping; A Three Dog Life; What Comes Next and How to Like It; and Still Life At Eighty, The Next Interesting Thing.

While I was visiting Abigail with my daughter Abby in Woodstock we had a conversation about Crones. She told me the root of the word Crone has to do with shears or scissors for cutting away what is not helpful or nourishing like dead fish. I discovered it has to do with weaving the golden thread from our ancestors, to now, and for the generations to come.

The Crone is the one who guides through example. She lives between worlds, embracing dark and light, sorrow and beauty. The Crone shelters us to open our hearts and to be with heartbreak — our own suffering and the suffering of others to heal the holes and return to wholeness.

We need her and if we call her she will come and if we honor her she will stay.

My Crone friend, Oriah Mountain Dreamer expressed in The Invitation

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

The Salty Crone is where you crawl out of confinement, unpack sorrows, shout out to no one in particular ‘I Love You,’ and do whatever you want.

Our space invites us to find meaning when meaning seems buried or hard to find — for those moments when the mystery bursts through — when an avalanche of feeling emerges and love finds us beneath the rubble and the rumble.

It’s where we talk about life before and after loss, abuse, addiction, cults, helicopters, hijacks, recovery, motherhood, cookie cutters, dirty laundry, side doors, and how writing through the hard washes us clean to emerge wise and beautiful.

The Salty Crone ✨ Prajna O'Hara

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